


Passacaglia

by Tseecka



Category: Sherlock Holmes (Downey films)
Genre: Fluff and Angst, Inspired by Music, M/M, Music, POV First Person, Shameless Smut
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-06-24
Updated: 2014-06-24
Packaged: 2018-02-06 02:47:22
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,106
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1841458
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Tseecka/pseuds/Tseecka
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Something in the relationship has changed, and Watson forces Holmes to confront it. Like a dance, there is a separation, and a rejoining, and both partners know the steps as easily as breath.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Passacaglia

**Author's Note:**

> The passacaglia is a form of music originating in 17th century Spain. Music was a strong influence in writing this story, and I wanted to structure the relationship between H/W on a musical form. Passacaglia comprises a strong, unvaried bass pattern overlaid by constant variations of a melody; like the relationship the two share, always following the same steps with some variation thrown in. A perfect dance. Passacaglias also sound beautiful on solo violin, which was another important aspect to choosing the thematic form; I wanted it to be a type of piece Holmes could potentially play. (Heinrich Ignaz Biber's Passacaglia in C, L'Ange Gardien, was the particular piece I decided on as the thematic backbone; it is a beautiful piece, and I highly encourage you to give it a listen!)

The cool night air brushed over my bare skin; I could taste the salty tang of it, the metallic afterbite of the industrial machinations of the revolting empire outside the window, the chalky dark taste of coal and steam and things burning. The breeze wafted into the room, the ugly, dusty curtains flapping slightly against the window pane. I shivered a little, shifted where I lay, as goosebumps prickled over my skin.   
  
"Holmes, would you quit analyzing and get on with it? Your intellect is superior, yes, but fortunately for the world, sex requires no brain power at all!"   
  
My companion glanced up from the foot of the bed, hands stilling where they'd been caressing and massaging my calf. It was like a rabbit, I thought in dismay, that had caught the scent of a hunter or the crack of a dry twig. Perfectly still, calculating, the gears churning in its mind and eyes wide as it tried in a split second to decide to flee or hide. "That!" I pointed out, voice harsher than I'd intended it to be. "Stop thinking for a damned minute!"   
  
Holmes looked confused, if that were possible--no, contemplative were more the word. I knew his mind was racing through the possibilities, a sequence of events--touches, caresses, open mouthed kisses that would have me writhing and squirming in perfect cadence to the symphony the detective was about to conduct through my body. And equally was he considering what, exactly, might happen if he were to ignore those cues and simply play it by ear. I watched his face run through the motions at lightning speed, used to this. Resigned to it. If he could not analyze, he could not play it perfectly, could not expect or predict or revel in the solitude his intelligence and control gave to him.   
  
It frightened him.   
  
I let my head fall back on the pillow, waiting expectantly, impatiently, for the progression to reach its inevitable resolution. My previous erection lay softening on my belly; I felt it slip by a fraction, listing to my thigh, and sighed inwardly.   
  
"God, Holmes, just stop bloody thinking and bed me already, would you?"  
  
"You're in my bed already, Watson, I'd say I'd achieved at least that much, and you hadn't complained about my methods then."  
  
"Your methods are perfectly fine, it's your execution that's lacking. And I don't complain." It slipped further; the goosebumps prickled more strongly, the heat of my body fading and the sweat drying on my skin, magnifying the cool wind.   
  
"There is nothing wrong with my execution; you've never taken issue with it until now. And why are you calling me Holmes?"  
  
"Why are you calling me Watson?"  
  
The room was quiet for a moment; then the bedsprings shifted, squeaked, as Holmes rolled himself into a sitting position and leaned back against the wrought-iron, not seeming to feel the cold. I lay still for another moment, eyes closed, fighting against the pain that rose in my chest and made itself known in the tightening of my throat.  
  
The faint smell of tobacco tickled at my nostrils, and, body now completely disinterested, I pushed myself up into a seated position, settling the pillows around me more comfortably. Holmes had a match to the bowl of his pipe--where the hell did he have that stashed away?--and was puffing at it, smoke billowing around his face. I looked away, staring towards the window, eyes unfocused. The mattress jostled me again as Holmes got to his feet, pacing aimlessly about the room. I heard the rustle of silk as Holmes found his dressing gown, and held up a hand automatically to catch the similar packet of material that he tossed my way. The familiarity pained me.   
  
"Throughout all the inexorable march of time and years onwards towards its inevitable conclusion," Holmes stated quietly as he headed for the window, intending to shut it, "you...you have been the one single, joyful constant." I caught the pause, the catch in breath, knew where my name should have been, knew Holmes hadn't been sure of which to use. "The excitement in my life, the...the cure for the doldrum existence to which I have somehow locked myself, and now." He left the sentence incomplete, but finished. I shrugged my shoulders into the dressing gown, my arms tingling pleasantly at the sensation of the material and the warmth. I swung my legs over the side of the bed, wrapped the sash around myself and knotted it. The wooden floor was cool on my bare feet.   
  
"Holmes..."  
  
The detective turned, offered what was supposed to be, I thought, a saucy grin around the end of his pipe. It seemed less hearty than usual. "There you are with Holmes again, Watson. Is this what we are, then? A single pretty face and we're back to simple colleagues, nothing more than ships in the night and partners in crime? One merry Mary and its Holmes and Watson once again, with nothing to show for years--years, my dear friend--of partnership beyond being the scourge of the underworld?"   
  
"This isn't the first pretty face, Holmes, you and your ways--the countless times I've come home, to these rooms--this room!--to find a woman in your bed, or a man!" I had considered going to my friend, putting my arms around his waist, holding him in an attempt to cement the relationship that was, or at the very least had been, there, but the accusation, true or not, left me livid and distant. "I do recall three months of my having to pay double rent, as a matter of fact, when you took off after--or was it with, perhaps--Miss Adler?"  
  
Holmes whirled, eyes suddenly dark. The look I had seen in the ring, the anger, the cold and calculated rage. "You were still John. I was still Sherlock. There was none of this idiocy with surnames and formality, and it was always, always, always to this room and this bed that I eventually returned! You accuse me of building this wall, this utter void between the two of us, Watson--" it was purposeful this time, the name; harsh, with all the meaning I feared carried behind that one single word, another attack calculated to perfection to wound and damage and hurt--"but it is you, this time, who have established the rift. You called me Holmes first."  
  
It was true, I knew. That was the sting of it. A couple of months following my newfound relationship with Mary and I'd finally believed myself free of the curse of homosexuality. True, the attraction to Holmes still held--held powerfully, in fact--but it wasn't the be all and end all. Women still held interest, a great deal, for me, and the desire to marry and love and father children and establish a household had risen up powerfully. So powerfully, in fact, that I had fought to cut off all ties to that previous man, lover of men; to free myself from the self-inflicted stigma and prove once and for all that it was women, and not men, where my true interests lay.   
  
A dalliance; an experiment that had gone awry. And Sherlock--whispered, cried, sung, groaned, spoken with reverence and something akin to, though not analogous with, love--had become Holmes. The first step, the initial break, and Holmes had followed with unseeing mimicry, unconsciously switching back to my surname as well, beginning the separation. The anasthetic for the eventual operation.   
  
And now here I was, unable to deny the power this room, this man, the smells and sights and tastes and feels of this ridiculous apartment on Baker Street held over me. Here I was crawling back to a man who had every fact lined up, who knew precisely the whys and hows and whens of the painful event, and who was acutely unable to comprehend what, exactly, he had done. Why things had changed. Why John was always John, even with his affairs and dalliances and his overnight guests, and yet one pretty face, one dazzling, beautiful, wholesome woman had turned Sherlock--oh, god, Sherlock--into Holmes.   
  
It was a mystery he had to solve. Could I really blame him for falling into old patterns? For looking at me, not as a lover, but as a puzzle to be solved?  
  
Of course not.   
  
"You're right, old boy," I said quietly. Holmes interrupted, still staring out the window, pipe hanging forgotten from his hand, "Yes, of course I am." I shook my head, a wry smile on my face.   
  
"I'm sorry?" Holmes was quiet for a moment or two. The seconds ticked by, echoing from my pocket-watch that laid on the bedside table, discarded with more reverence than the waistcoat, or trousers, or shirt. Then he turned on his heel, staring straight into my eyes.   
  
"Yes, of course you are," he whispered. He laid the pipe on the sill, and his hand dropped to the tie at his waist. His own apology hung in the air, unsaid, but understood, by both of us. I'm sorry for thinking too much, for reacting too harshly, for smoking in the bedroom.   
  
I'm sorry for almost allowing you to slip away.  
  
He tugged, and the sash fell away, allowing the robe to billow open a little in the breeze. I squeezed the edge of the mattress in my fingers, clenching once, washing images of Mary from my mind. When I opened my eyes, Holmes stood before me, between my knees at the edge of the bed, one hand lightly carding through the hair at my nape.   
  
I felt my prick once again take interest, hardening quickly as all of my blood rushed into my groin. This time, unlike nearly every time in the last few weeks, obsessed by creating an environment of deniability, I didn't fight it. I didn't fight the heat that pooled in my belly and the base of my spine as Holmes knelt on the mattress, shifting my knees further apart to make room and pressing wet, heated kisses to the skin at my throat and under my ear. I didn't argue with the groans that fought their guttural way from my chest, didn't admonish my lungs for the rattling breath I fought harder and harder to draw with every passing second. I didn't object to my fingers clenching into the fabric of his robe, shoving it down his shoulders, off of his arms, kicking it away as a pair of dark eyes looked up at my and teeth deftly worked the loose knot of my own robe's sash. And I didn't, absolutely did not rebel against the moaned name that dropped from my lips, pressed to the heated skin of Holmes’ neck as he drove us downwards, pressing his weight against my body, hard angles and firm curves meeting and meshing and interlocking in a perfect dance.   
  
"Sherlock..."   
  
The sound of his name, his first name, from my lips rocked Holmes’ hips forward into mine with a loud groan. His head dropped to graze his teeth against my throat, one hand moving down along our bodies, underneath the fabric still pooled around me, to fasten firmly on my hip. He answered in kind, muttering my name. His voice cracked.   
  
It was my turn, now, to analyze and deduct and guess and determine exactly what path this would take. I knew the exact motion to use, the right amount of pressure, the perfect angle as I arched my back and slid my aching prick determinedly along Holmes’ own erection. The firm, slick slide of sensitive flesh against flesh elicited a gasp from his throat, and his hand spasmed on my side. Coasting over the skin of our stomachs, I felt his hand wrap around both of our members--fumbling for a moment, as always, the angle and the combined size awkward at first--just as I moved my hips for a second go. Just as always, our timing, our rhythm, synchronized to the second. Perfect.   
  
He was beyond thought, beyond analysis. I could feel the rhythm of his hips, up until now methodical, smooth, incrementally accelerating at a perfect pre-deduced rate, stutter; I felt Holmes’ hand jump on our erections, slipping for a moment, resettling a few seconds later and stroking with twice the vigor as though to make up for his lapse. I knew, without looking, that Holmes’ other hand was splayed on the bed, right next to my shoulder. The heat of his panted breath, combined with my own, beaded my skin with sweat and moisture, and blocked away the breeze still blowing through the unclosed window.  
  
My head tossed on the pillow, and I had to wipe a bead of sweat from my eyebrow before it trailed into my eye, my hips still moving erratically with those of the man above me. Holmes’ weight was pressing down on me more, his arm shaking slightly with the strain, his whole body moving with his impending physical release. The hand released me, and the body collapsed down, rubbing frantically against my prick, my thigh, anything that would provide the heat and friction needed for his completion. I gasped for breath myself, muscles corded in my neck as I strained for the same.   
  
"John..." My name was barely whispered, a strained, wispy thing that nonetheless went straight to my erection. I felt Holmes—oh, God, what’s the use?—I felt Sherlock pull back a little, hands fastening again to both hips, cool air rushing over sweat-slicked skin as our bodies parted. It made me shiver, which pulled a rare smile from the man hovering over me.   
  
With practice born of years in the rings, Sherlock pulled me over to my knees, and I went without argument. I could feel, more than hear, the hitch in his breath, trembling through his hands and fingers and down into my bruising skin. I did wince, feeling one knee wrench in offense, but said nothing, too intent on the sudden heat now at my back and the heavy weight of Sherlock's prick pressed against my buttocks, sliding in delicious friction along the crack between the muscles there. I arched his back, pushing against the insistent weight, moaning like a wanton--and was rewarded by Sherlock's long, low moan in answer.   
  
"Dear God, my dear Watson, John, I've missed this...no one has the ability to make me feel this, none but you, John--" and another weight, pliable but strong, circled my erection and began stroking in time with the thrusts that had our wrought-iron headboard banging against the wall, my knees fulcruming our bodies back and forth on the mattress. A picture fell, the frame cracking audibly, glass crashing to pieces on the carpet. I didn't care, too focused on the delicious heat around my member and the undeniable power at my backside.   
  
I knew, without being asked, without thought giving way to words, that Sherlock was challenging me; he dared me to claim that Mary could make me feel this good, this wonderful, this utterly complete; and Sherlock knew, without hearing the answer, that it was an emphatic guttural "No" that echoed noiselessly through every trembling muscle of my body.   
  
My hands fisted in the sheets, the sleeves of the robe Sherlock had never bothered to strip me of pooling down one arm, leaving a shoulder bare as I was rocked back and forth. I knew I wanted more, needed it, yet didn't dare ask for it--knew neither of us would last long enough for that, and the insistence of the coil in my gut was undeniable. I felt Sherlock lean forward, forehead resting against that shoulder, pressing rough, sloppy kisses to my flushed skin as his body shuddered and shook, and something warm leaked onto the base of my spine. He gave a few more halfhearted thrusts, spreading his release over my skin, riding out the last shocks of his orgasm. Ready for the forthcoming drive to the finish for myself, I spread my knees, arms firmly locked, and began working my own erection in and out of his slackening hand. A cry of frustration broke free from my chapped, dry lips when the hand dropped away entirely.   
  
I went to grasp myself. My need was insistent, undeniable, torturous even in its sweetness; yet that too was denied me when a strong hand and iron fingers locked onto my wrist. I turned my head slightly, and without warning—though I should have seen it, the play of muscles in his shoulders, the sudden tensing of a thigh as he prepared to sweep his bent leg around and under my own, the flash of a feral grin as his own mind provided a mental image of the outcome seconds before it happened—Sherlock flipped me, albeit awkwardly, to land in a pile on my back, legs akimbo and erection bobbing helplessly against my belly. He danced fingers along my stomach, feeling the muscles, over-sensitized already, contract and release with each flighting touch.   
  
"My dear John," he whispered, holding my gaze. I found the look in those eyes made it difficult for me to breathe, the echo of a sentiment neither of us had ever truly had the courage to admit aloud. I felt that same sentiment—affection? Adoration? Idolization?—reflect itself in my eyes. Whether it was something I wanted, or something I wished I could hide from the world, I neither knew nor care. It sufficed that he saw it lingering there, and made it his intent to have himself a taste. He leaned forward, crawling forward on shaky hands and knees to between my legs and kissed me solidly on the mouth. Our tongues swirled together, lips locked in a ferocious kiss that was only a little tremulous. Sherlock was ferocious, wild, irrational. I grunted against his lips, bucking my hips upward in search of friction and again reaching down for my own release, but Sherlock caught my hands again and held them to my sides. I was pinned against the sheets; I could feel the liquid coating my lower back squishing into the linens and grimaced inwardly at the threat of extra washing.   
  
Sherlock kissed me again, tilting his head to the side and thoroughly covering my mouth with his own, running his tongue over my lips and teeth and the inside of my mouth. I tasted the faintest hint of tobacco, the last vestiges of the sweet tart he’d eaten at our lunch earlier, the musky, heady taste that was Sherlock Holmes. Familiar, bitter, with enough lingering sweetness to always entice a deeper kiss, in search of the source, unable to resist wanting more. The heat of our kiss, of his mouth against mine, was intense, blinding and dazzling all at once, and it took me a moment to realize what the uncomfortable sensation at the small of my back meant.   
  
The realization that Sherlock had not thought this through, had not analyzed every single movement, had not thought far enough ahead to realize what his upset would mean for our laundry--or had chosen not to care, which was somehow far more unlikely--had me with my hands suddenly locked, desperate and clinging and refusing to release even the slightest inch, around Sherlock's neck, deepening the kiss until I thought I might drown for lack of air. I felt Sherlock tense, knew the man--knew him so well, so very intimately well--would have just come to realize my own realization, and would have trepidations of his own at being caught at this new game. Treading unfamiliar territory. Walking blind.   
  
He pulled away, leaving me with swollen, glistening lips and a heaving chest that panted and gasped for breath. With a sense of dismay, I thought that the detective had had enough of unorthodox methods for the day. Instead, almost too quickly for me to process the action, he bent double at the waist and licked a long, firm line up the length of my leaking prick. I gasped, and my hips rocketed upwards, seeking out more of that deliciously warm, wet heat. Sherlock chuckled to himself, and I managed a smile back, eyes closed in ecstasy. I kept my hands firmly at my side as Sherlock slid a few scant inches down the bed, settling more comfortably between my legs, and began lapping at my member, pulling it into his mouth with his tongue. His lips ran over the hardened flesh, tongue flicking at all of the sweetest spots, the ones that pulled the deepest groans from me and the most emphatic pleas, that sent sparks flashing behind my clenched eyelids. I drew a deep, shuddering breath.   
  
"Sherlock...Good God, man, I can't last like this..."   
  
No sooner were the words out of my mouth than Sherlock ran his teeth up the underside, lightly, barely even enough to be called a graze. I gasped aloud, the sensation triggering the most exquisite mix of pain and pleasure in my entire body, and I trembled all over as my release leaked out, pumping down the quickly softening flesh and pooling in the nest of dark hairs at the base. My head fell back into the pillows with a dull thump, and I lay still there, panting and trying to catch my breath as Sherlock licked the last remnants of my seed from his lips. His eyes gradually cleared, analytical once more, and I both celebrated and mourned the return of that expression.   
  
He said nothing, but crawled up the bed to lay himself alongside my sweaty body, the crease of this thighs pressed to my hip and his head tucked into the hollow of my right shoulder. We did not embrace; did not lay together on the bed and pass the hours in sleepy contemplation of the merits of rising; instead, the companionable silence stretched on for a comfortable number of minutes before he rose and gathered his robe from its pile on the floor. I shifted, sitting up—muscles in my abdomen ached and complained at the action—and using the already sullied fabric beneath me to clean my skin more thoroughly. I was once more surprised by Holmes’ sudden appearance in my line of vision, and closed my eyes reflexively as he pressed a soft kiss to the corner of my mouth. Unusual tenderness, for him, and my heart ached at the vulnerability that I knew he showed only to me.   
  
He pulled back, and his lips curled into a sidelong smile, then parted as though to speak. His tongue darted out to wet them, as dry and chapped from panting the chilling air as my own, and with that movement as always I heard the words before he spoke.   
  
As always, I saved him the discomfort of having to speak them, and nodded my head, leaning up one last time to capture his lips in mine. “As do I, my dear Sherlock,” I murmured against his parted lips; they closed, a firmly set line, and he nodded briskly in return.   
  
“Right then.” And the dance, this particular one in an immesurable set that had and would stretch on for the inexorable dredge of years that marche din their steady passing, ended. A step back by either party; a formal bow, recognition and respect and that slightest edge of attraction lurking just beneath the surface, awakened by what seemed the smallest of things. The scent of tobacco. The heady musk of one particular sex. The world hangs for a moment in complete stillness; then the two go separate ways, always with the other on their mind, but once more separated by the formality and decorum required by everyday life. Holmes and Watson, once more, as John and Sherlock were tucked away for the next rondeau.   
  
I knew, as I tucked my shirt into my trousers and buttoned my waistcoat, that it would not surprise Holmes to see the ring back in the jeweler’s window the following day, just as I knew he would make no comment on the matter, but would take me to his bed as passionately and with such relief as ever he did that night, and in the morning we would sit in the study and sip tea. Our eyes would meet over the rims of our cups at a precise moment, and we would both smile, and hear our names spoken in the sudden slurp of a hot beverage, the clink of a fork on china, and the contented sigh of the filled as we contemplated what the day would bring. 


End file.
